


The World-Without-End Hour

by tamed_untranslatable



Series: The World-Without-End Hour [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Mollstrade, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamed_untranslatable/pseuds/tamed_untranslatable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets hurt in the field, and Sherlock waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World-Without-End Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to the wonderful [Lynette](http://eevee436.tumblr.com/), beta extraordinaire <3\. 
> 
> Note: My medical knowledge is wildly not up to par, so please forgive any inaccuracies you may find here.

A shot ricocheted off the alley wall, and John pulled Sherlock back around the corner.

“It’s just him,” Sherlock gasped out. He reached into his pocket for a spare magazine and snapped it into the handle of his revolver. “His contact must have run off.”

“Then we can take him in.” John’s breath was rapid but steady against the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“We can try.” Slowly, Sherlock hazarded another glance around the corner, but their suspect – one of Mycroft’s underlings who’d been selling state secrets on the side – had vanished down a narrow side street.

“Come on.” Sherlock made to move, but John caught his arm.

“Let me go first.” His eyes were bright with adrenaline in the dim light of the alley. “He hasn’t seen me yet – I can surprise him.”

Sherlock nodded and flattened himself against the wall to let him pass.

He peered around the wall and watched John move toward the side street, then slipped out and followed as soon as John had turned the corner.

For a few seconds, there was silence – broken only by distant footsteps echoing in the narrow space. Then it was shattered by the loud _crack_ of a gunshot, and Sherlock leapt out, in time to see John slam their suspect against the wall and level his gun against his chest.

“Don’t move,” Sherlock snarled in warning, raising his own weapon. The man’s gun lay at Sherlock’s feet, and he kicked it into the shadows.

“Now, you can cooperate and give us the files,” John said quietly, his voice even. “And we can take you to Scotland Yard and let you plead for a reduced sentence. Or, if you’d prefer, you can make this difficult, and we can get the coroners to pass on the files for us.”

Sherlock allowed his lips to turn up into a smirk, a twinge of pride swelling up in his chest as John stared daggers at their wide-eyed suspect.

The man lifted a shaky hand in deference, and with his other reached into his trouser pocket, fingers fumbling for the memory stick, and Sherlock began to lower his pistol–

And before he could even register the manic blaze in the suspect’s eyes – a soft _click_ , a flash of silver, and John crumpled to the pavement with a loud groan.

_“John!”_

The man was already bolting for the main road; he flung the knife to the side, a shining blade blotted out with scarlet. Sherlock surged forward and fired, but only managed to graze the side of his torso before he turned the corner, wheezing, and disappeared.

Sherlock fell on his knees next to John, who was shaking and gasping and clutching at his side.

“John, oh God, _John –”_

Sherlock pulled him towards him with a gentle grip on his shoulder, urging him to lie back with his head on Sherlock’s knees.

“Oh God…”

Lower abdomen, and _gaping_. Blood, so much blood, seeping through John’s shirt, staining his jacket, running down toward his palms…

Sherlock seized the phone out of his pocket, fingers fumbling at the keypad as he ripped the scarf from his neck.

_“Emergency, what service do you require?”_

“Ambulance.” Sherlock struggled to keep himself from shouting as he pressed the scarf into John’s side. “My husband, he’s been stabbed – we’re in the alley behind 403 Presbury Street.”

The operator began to patch them through with her standard reassurances, but Sherlock had already dropped the phone.

He held the scarf in place with both hands – red seeping through blue at a panic-inducing rate – and applied pressure, making John let out a low, strangled groan.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry John,” Sherlock rasped out, breathless. “I know it hurts, but you’re going to be alright – help is coming, they’re on their way, stay with me...”

John’s eyelids were fluttering, struggling to stay even half open. “’m sorry,” he mumbled; his head lolled in Sherlock’s lap. “Didn’t see…stupid…wasn’t thinking…”

“Shhh, it’s alright.” A dangerous hitch sounded in Sherlock’s voice. “It doesn’t matter, just stay with me, just keep breathing–”

A swelling in the back of Sherlock’s throat halted the flow of his words. He shifted his grip on the scarf, reached down to brush the hair away from John’s temple.

Suddenly John gritted his teeth and let out a low whine; Sherlock could feel wetness against his palm where it pressed into fabric; John’s eyes were flickering closed.

“John, _John!_ ” Sherlock’s heart raced into overdrive. “Stay awake, you’ve got to stay awake!”

He only noticed the tears dripping down his own cheeks when he leaned down to press his lips to John’s forehead.

“John, please, stay awake.” His skin was cold. “Just a few minutes more – they’re coming, please…”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was barely a breath.

“I’m _here._ ” A strangled sob was all that was left of Sherlock’s. “I’m here, John, just stay with me, _please_ …”

Sherlock kissed his own tears from John’s cheeks.

A distant part of his mind gratefully registered the sirens coming up the street behind him. He let out a final gasp, whispering constantly as he smoothed the lines of John’s brow.

Someone laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder – he pulled back while the paramedics raced in around him. Someone began checking John’s vitals, two others loaded him onto a stretcher, shouting urgent commands that Sherlock only vaguely heard.

Just as one of them was preparing an oxygen mask, John reached out clumsily for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock held on tight; John’s eyes were suddenly focused. 

“I love you,” he breathed out.

Sherlock’s heart stilled in his chest.

“No…” He shook his head, panicked. “John, _don’t_ –”

“No, not that.” John’s lips settled in a pained half-smile; his fingers did their best to squeeze Sherlock’s comfortingly. “But…just in case.”

Sherlock blinked back a fresh wave of tears as they lowered the mask over him.

* * *

The city lights flew past and blurred into the peaks on the monitor.

The relentless beeping pounded like a drum against Sherlock’s temple, crashing through his fog-filled brain. Still, he welcomed the pain it brought, cherished it, because if that torturous sound were to stop…

Sherlock drew another shaking breath; he didn’t let himself finish that thought. Instead he clutched John’s hand tighter, moved his fingers over ghostly pale skin – too cold, too cold. He watched his face intently, waiting for any change, any indication of consciousness, any signal that John could hear his incessant, broken pleas, _stay with me John, we’re almost there, don’t you leave me, don’t you_ dare _leave me_ …

The hospital’s grotesquely familiar façade faded into view out of the epileptic light, and then Sherlock was hurrying alongside the gurney into the A&E, not letting go, not stopping his string of increasingly incomprehensible babbling, not tearing his eyes away even for a second as doctors whisked him towards the double doors that lead to the operating room–

And then someone was stopping him with a firm grip on his upper arm.

“I’m sorry sir, but this is as far as you can go.”

“Get off!” Sherlock struggled out of the doctor’s grasp, causing his hand to slip out of John’s.

“Sir, you _cannot_ come back here.” The doctor caught him again by the shoulder and moved in front of him, blocking his path through the doors. “This area is for surgical personnel only.”

“That’s my husband!” Sherlock’s voice had raised to a hoarse shout without his consent. He tried once again to throw the other man’s grip from him, but his own hands were shaking too much.

“Sir, please try to-”

“John!” He surged forward again, but could only stumble. “ _John!_ ”

His voice broke on the last letter; underneath the doctor’s arm flung solid across his chest, Sherlock sucked air into his lungs with the desperation of a drowning man.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know this is difficult.” The man’s voice was more even now, and despite the underlying urgency, sounded genuinely sympathetic.

Sherlock felt panic seeping back into the centre of his chest; it swelled in volume, creeping up toward his throat, with every back-and-forth swing of the double doors where John had disappeared – where they had taken him away.

“But understand that you’ve done all you can do,” the doctor went on firmly, not relinquishing his grip. “The doctors will take care of him now, and I assure you that we will be doing everything we can…”

Sherlock hardly heard what he was saying, unable to tear his eyes away from the doors’ nauseating motion, the doors that swayed tantalizingly open then slammed unforgivingly closed, the doors where a too-pale John, hooked up to tubes and machines, had disappeared from his view for maybe the last time.

A dry sob burst from Sherlock’s throat; his hands had gone still.

“Sir?”

Sherlock shut his eyes and focused on his breathing, coming in deep shuddering gasps which he did his best to even out and _don’t think about that, don’t think don’t think don’t even THINK._

“Just try your best to calm down, alright?” The doctor released him from his hold, but kept a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Have a seat in the waiting room, and I promise we’ll let you know as soon as we have any news.”

Sherlock must have nodded – although he couldn’t feel himself making any movements – because the doctor withdrew his hand and rushed off through the doors.

Sherlock waited until his footsteps had receded before opening his eyes. His own gulping breaths were all he could hear, drowning out all the chaos and bustle of the ER.

John was gone.

John was gone – taken away by strangers who may not even be able to save him – and Sherlock had barely seen his face, hadn’t even registered what he’d last said to him before he’d been rushed off.

And now Sherlock stood in the blinding, bleached-white hallway, alone. 

He couldn’t move; he needed to get out of the way, to find somewhere to sit before his knees gave out, but suddenly his feet were made of lead and he couldn’t make them budge, couldn’t even tear his eyes away from the empty cavern of forbidden space beyond those doors.

Red – all he could see was red. Red on the glistening blade, red flinging out onto brick and asphalt, red pouring out through fabric and over skin and staining the night dark crimson.

He shut his eyes against it, but it pulsed there too - red seeping through plaid cotton, red droplets spattering on black wool, red gushing too quickly like an unstoppable tide, too powerful to hold back.

Somewhere far away he thought he heard a voice – it may have been a woman’s and it may have been speaking to him, but Sherlock’s ears felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton, and he couldn’t discern anything other than a mumble. Still, it made him recoil; his eyes opened sluggishly and he turned to make his way slowly back down the hallway, not even feeling his own footfalls against the echoing tile.

The area smelt vaguely acidic, in that distinct way that only hospitals do. The _clack_ of shoes and the squeak of gurney wheels dimly registered in his brain full seconds after their sources had rushed by in front of his eyes. The material of his chair was scratchy – odd, he didn’t remember sitting – and the cushion was understuffed, so that the wood frame dug into his thighs as he leaned forward heavily and folded his hands in front of his face.

The red wouldn’t subside – flowing like a river over every polished surface, every glass door, every whitewashed tile of this waiting area. Sherlock tried to breathe in time with a heart monitor that was beeping away in some adjacent room, visualizing the peaks and timing each inhale and exhale, slowly, deliberately – but that only brought him back to red, red pouring out through gauze in the back of the ambulance, red flashing out on the surrounding buildings as the siren screamed its way through traffic. Red dripping over pale, pale skin and staining the tips of strong, callused fingers.

Sherlock shook his head as if to fling the image away. His eyes focused on his own clenched hands; they were covered in blood.

A wave of nausea surged up through his stomach, and Sherlock swallowed it down with a gulp, clenching his teeth to stop himself from retching.

He stood up again, stumbling as if he’d been drinking. He shrugged his coat off his shoulders – probably stained too, though he couldn’t make himself turn around to check. In a bizarre moment of practicality, he wondered vaguely just what kind of look the dry cleaner would give him when he brought him his prized vintage Belstaff covered in blood. He let out a bemused huff of air – the barest skeleton of a laugh – but the thought slid out of his head before he could gain any kind of reprieve from it. He left the coat over the back of the chair and wandered off toward the bathroom as if in a dream.

Sherlock pushed open the door, realizing too late that he’d left a bloody handprint on the wood. He went to the sink without looking at himself in the mirror and fumbled with the taps. Only the cold water seemed to work, and it numbed Sherlock’s fingers into ice as it washed over them and collected as a deep red lake at the bottom of the basin.

Sherlock sloshed the water up over his forearms, scrubbing every trace of red that would wash away. Water splashed up to his rolled-up sleeves, raising goosebumps all the way up to his neck. He scrubbed and scratched at the blood caked between his fingers, under his nails, around the base of his wedding ring, and when he had cleaned away all he could he left the water running and braced his hands against the side of the sink, watching it swirl down the drain and sucking deep breaths into lungs that suddenly seemed too small to hold air. 

His eyes were dry but burning, and he screwed them shut, trying to pull himself back from whatever precipice he was about to hurl over – back away from blank eyes and cold hands, away from the long, drawn-out shriek of a flat line across a black screen, away from ghostly pale lips that whispered his name in a sound less than a breath before finally going still. He clenched his hands against the porcelain and pulled back, pulled back, pulled back to the alley and the blood and the whitewashed tiles, if only to keep himself from the unthinkable alternative.

Steadily, fighting against a piercing ringing sound in his ears, Sherlock pulled enough air into his lungs to get his brain back under his control. He gulped in a few more stuttering breaths before it levelled out, and he was able to unclench his jaw and open his eyes.

His knuckles were white against the sink – he relaxed them enough to realize that he was shivering, although he couldn’t feel it. He turned the water off and watched the stray droplets run down the basin.

The ringing noise grew louder, and suddenly Sherlock realized it was coming not from inside his ears, but from his mobile phone buzzing in his trouser pocket.

Forcing his hand to steady enough to reach it, he pulled it out and brought it up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ah, how kind of you to do me the honour of answering.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed again. “Mycroft…”

“Any chance you’d like to explain to me why your suspect was just picked up by police on the Strand, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the side?” The terse, sarcastic smile was evident in his brother’s voice even through the phone.

Sherlock raised a hand to rub at his temple. “Got him then, did you?”

“Yes, but the files are nowhere to be found, so now we’ll have to launch a full-scale investigation to find whatever he’s got, which is precisely what I was hoping to avoid by involving you.”

Sherlock sighed – the sound fed back through the phone and crackled in his ear. “Sorry.” His own voice sounded stiff and lifeless.

Mycroft huffed out a bewildered laugh. “‘Sorry?’ Is that it?” The sound pounded against Sherlock’s brow, making him wince. “Can’t you even be bothered to try to justify this in some scathing manner that’s supposed to prove your own brilliance?”

“John’s been stabbed,” Sherlock replied, weakly. The blockage in his throat was beginning to return. 

Silence on the other end. Then, after a long moment, a soft, restrained “What?”

Sherlock swallowed heavily. “The suspect, he–”. His voice caught in his throat. He tried again. “The suspect pulled a switchblade, neither of us saw it. He stabbed John in the abdomen and ran off. I shot but I couldn’t follow him.”

Sherlock’s own laboured breathing was all he could hear in the empty space. When Mycroft spoke again, it was with an even “Are you at Bart’s?”

Sherlock nodded, then added “Yes,” when he realized that Mycroft couldn’t see him. “I don’t – they won’t let me –” He cleared his throat, painfully. “That is, I’m waiting for news.”

Saying it out loud made his eyes start to burn again – though this time he wasn’t sure if he could get them back under control.

A hiss of static sounded over the line, indicating a sigh from Mycroft. “Sherlock, I…”

But Sherlock couldn’t listen any more. “Sorry about your traitor,” he said, curtly, and hung up, dropping the phone back into his pocket. He lifted his hands up to rub at the edge of his temples, finally steepling them at the bridge of his nose as he swallowed down the building wetness behind his eyes. Every part of his body felt like it was crying out in protest at being kept so still, but he forced himself to martial it all – he made his brain keep it all under control, knowing that if he faltered now, if he lost himself to the incessantly pooling, dripping, bleeding red that still invaded the darkness behind his eyelids, he may never find himself again.

* * *

It’s when he’d returned to the understuffed chair of the waiting room that something was able to pull him back.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there – every second seemed to stretch on to an hour, so he’d stopped trying to keep track – when he was pulled out of his own mind by someone calling his name.

Sherlock blinked away the haze in front of his vision and turned toward the sound, and what he saw made his brow furrow in surprise.

“Molly?”

She was hurrying toward him, more quickly than he’d ever seen her move. Lestrade was right behind her.

“Greg? What –?”

But Molly had sunk to her knees beside Sherlock and thrown his arms around his shoulders. She was wearing an old tattered cardigan and had several flyaway hairs escaping from her ponytail. Lestrade was unshaven and had on a threadbare t-shirt with a frayed collar poking out from under his jacket.

Sherlock sat stock-still, unable even to respond to Molly’s embrace. “What are you doing here?”

“We came as soon as we heard,” Lestrade said, rasping and urgent. He sat down in the chair next to Sherlock’s and put his arm around his shoulders.

“What’s going on? Is there any news?” Molly pulled back to look Sherlock in the face. Lines worried the centre of her brow, and the vaguest hint of red showed around her eyes.

“N-no.” Sherlock pushed himself out of his bewilderment enough to lay a tentative hand on Molly’s shoulder. He looked from her to Lestrade, searchingly. “Not since he went into surgery. Nothing.”

Lestrade’s face fell briefly before he could settle his expression back into neutral concern. Molly said nothing, but pursed her lips into a thin line, giving away her fear.

Sherlock shook his head minutely, his gaze darting back and forth between both of them. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.

“Mycroft called us.” Lestrade’s voice made an attempt to be comforting, but didn’t quite manage it. “He said to say he’d be here as soon as he could, and he’s sending a car for Mrs. Hudson.”

“We would have been here sooner, but we had to find someone to watch the kids.” Now Molly was apologizing – _why on earth was she apologizing?_ “Are you alright? How long have you been waiting?”

“No, I mean –” Sherlock blinked heavily, trying to clear his head; nothing about this was making sense. “What are you doing here? There’s nothing you can do – you didn’t have to come.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course we had to come,” Lestrade replied without a moment of hesitation. He gripped Sherlock’s shoulder solidly, looking at him with warmth.

“Of _course_ we had to come,” Molly echoed. She looked almost amused at Sherlock’s statement. She got up off her knees and sat down on the coffee table in front of the chairs, folding her arms against her chest.

Sherlock’s mind slowed to a crawl; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked once more from Molly to Lestrade and back again, at the incomprehensibly genuine concern in their eyes, and a blaze of earnest affection for them both flared up in his chest.

A soft “oh,” was all he could get out, overcome as he was. But neither of them seemed to mind.

“How long has it been since he went in?” Molly asked. Each of her hands was clenched nervously around the opposite arm.

Sherlock looked up at the clock hanging over the receptionists’ desk; the numbers on the face clicked around in his head for a moment before he realized it was useless.

“I don’t know.” His voice was barely above a mumble. “I didn’t notice when we got here.”

Molly’s face clouded over with guilt for a moment, but she steeled herself again. “Well, if it’s been a while that’s probably a good sign – it means they’ve probably got him a transfusion, and they’ll be at the very least beginning surgery, though how it will go will depend on how badly he got hit and which internal organs–”

Sherlock flinched hard, clenching his hands in front of his face and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, God, sorry!” Molly backtracked with fervour. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – sorry.” Sherlock could almost see her sputtering, panic-stricken, on her own artlessness.

“Look, Sherlock, John’s a fighter, alright?” Lestrade pulled the conversation back to safer ground. “You know him – tough as nails, your John Watson.” His attempt at a reassuring smile grated harshly through his words. “No thug with a knife is gonna be able to take him down if he has anything to say about it.”

Lestrade’s efforts were hardly better than Molly’s. Sherlock breathed deeply, trying to relax his tensed muscles.

“How are the children?” he asked, dimly.

Lestrade and Molly paused for a second, certainly looking at each other with confusion.

“We don’t have to talk about them, Sherlock,” Molly ventured. “We’re here for _you_ , we don’t –”

“ _Please,_ ” Sherlock rasped out. He wrenched open his eyes to search Molly’s unsure face. “Tell me about the children?”

Molly blinked a few times, something dangerously close to pity in her eyes. Lestrade was the first to recover.

“You know, Emma _did_ say the funniest thing the other day…”

“Oh, yes!” Sudden glee filled Molly’s expression as she turned back to her husband. “It was right when she came home from school – she’s got the most _wonderful_ teacher, Sherlock…”

They tripped over each other as they told the story, interrupting and digressing all over the events with a uniquely parental excitement. Ordinarily, Sherlock found these anecdotes fairly dull, but right now he listened as if he could disappear into the account of Emma’s humorous understanding of her primary school lesson, and be granted salvation from this nightmare.

Molly finished the story with a rapturous laugh, and a giggling Lestrade launched immediately into another. Sherlock took it in and smiled along in the appropriate places, letting himself be caught up in their enthusiasm as much as he was able while his mind was still struggling back to whatever was going on in that operating room, a steady eye on the infernal drag of hands over the clock face, _tick, tick, tick…_

* * *

When they ran out of stories, Sherlock began to pace.

They kept talking, of course – they had taken up their task infallibly, for which Sherlock was grateful. The conversation rolled around to work, Lestrade trying to entice Sherlock’s interest by bringing up some cold cases he’d been looking at, but Sherlock found he could pay less and less attention the longer they went on. Sitting still had become impossible, so he’d leapt up to stride up and down the small line of chairs while alternating running his agitated hands through his hair and folding them in front of his face as he tried, and all but failed, to think.

His restlessness was clearly making Molly uneasy, though she knew better than to point it out. “Any thoughts, Sherlock?” There was an awful note of wariness in her voice.

“It was his wife,” Sherlock said curtly, not looking at either of them.

“No, her alibi checked out.” Lestrade cut in. “She was out of the country.”

“His mistress, then.”

“There wasn’t one. We checked all possible–”

“Then a jealous former lover! What does it _matter?_ ” Sherlock exploded, spitting sharply as he whirled around to face them.

Lestrade opened his mouth and closed it again, looking stunned. Molly was silent, but Sherlock swore he saw her lip wobble.

Sherlock sighed and pushed a hand back through his curls, trying to steady himself.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“S’alright,” Lestrade replied, though his expression was suddenly guilty. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

To his own surprise, Sherlock found himself huffing out a laugh, though there was hardly more than a breath behind it.

“Like _what?_ ”

Both Molly and Lestrade pursed their lips uncomfortably. They knew as well as he did that there was nothing to talk about. It was the middle of the night, they were in an emergency room, John was lying dead or alive on an operating table somewhere, and there was absolutely nothing to say. 

Mercifully, at that moment the entry door opened, followed by a blessedly familiar voice.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock spun around and let out a heavy sigh, feeling the tiniest bit lighter.

Mrs. Hudson moved toward them and Sherlock stepped into her hug without thinking. He let his head fall onto her shoulder with relief as she clasped her hands around his back.

“How is he?” Her voice was quiet with worry.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock muttered back, sounding strangled even to his own ears. “They haven’t told me anything. I don’t know.”

“Oh, Sherlock…”

He let her hold him for a while, swallowing heavily and trying not to shake. He wasn’t sure if he managed it; her arms came up to pat gently between his shoulders as he fought to hold everything back.

“He’ll be alright, I’m sure.” She was clearly going for her usual upbeat optimism, but the smallness of her voice betrayed her. “Medicine these days can fix up just about anyone. There’s no need to worry. ”

It took Sherlock great effort not to recoil at her words, ringing hollow as the barest echo in his ears. With a deep breath he pulled back enough to give her a curt nod – hardly able to look her in the eyes – then released her to let her move toward the Lestrades.

“Mycroft got you here too, then?” Mrs. Hudson lowered herself into a chair and folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Thank goodness. Always good in a crisis, that one. I was so flustered I wouldn’t have known _who_ to call!”

Sherlock hadn’t moved; he stared off in the direction of the entry doors, his back to their quiet conversation. Distantly he heard Molly filling in Mrs. Hudson of all that had happened – all that _hadn’t_ happened – since they’d been there. His mind felt dense as honey, snippets of words and phrases floating around in a disorganized mess; _knew it was bad if he called so late…could have been days before we knew…he shouldn’t be alone…_

Mycroft had called them all. Yes, yes of _course_ Mycroft had called them. He’d called them because he was the one who kept his head and took care of things when Sherlock couldn’t, and sure enough Sherlock hadn’t done anything since it happened but sit here uselessly, unable to even string together a coherent sentence in his mind.

“Harry,” Sherlock choked out, his voice low and hoarse. “I should call Harry.”

The three of them looked up from their conversation. Sherlock could detect their pitying caution out of the corner of his eye.

“Right, yes, that’s what I should be doing.” Sherlock’s speech was suddenly rapid, the words struggling to come out in the right order. Had Mycroft called her too? No, he wouldn’t have – only the people who could help Sherlock. “She’ll want to know, I should call her.” He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, then froze.

“Or…shouldn’t I? She can’t help, it’ll only upset her. ” He spun around to face his friends again, eyes desperately searching their faces as if they held the answer. “Maybe it’s too early. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her until…until…”

Until what? Sherlock shook his head violently, trying to clear it. “No, no, I should call her.” He drew out the phone and tried to pull up her number. “She’ll be furious if…if something happens and I didn’t tell her right away. I’d better call her.”

He couldn’t dial; his hands were shaking so much they could barely land on the screen. Lestrade stood up and gently took the phone from him before he could drop it.

“Here, _I’ll_ call her. You just sit down and relax.” Lestrade’s voice was firm but his eyes were sympathetic. He gave Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze and then moved off into the corner to find the number.

No, Sherlock couldn’t sit down, and he _certainly_ wasn’t about to relax. He needed something to do, something to keep him occupied while he was stuck here being useless. “Coffee!” he almost shouted. “Does anyone else need coffee?”

“I’ll get it,” Molly said at once, and made to stand up.

“ _No._ No, let me get it.” Sherlock held out a hand, desperate for her to _stop_ , and whatever wrecked expression was on his face made her retreat back into her chair.

Sherlock whirled around and hurried off down the corridor. He could feel Molly and Mrs. Hudson’s worried gazes boring into his back as he went, but thankfully they made no move to come after him.

He pushed his way through a glass-panelled door and turned a corner into the hospital canteen. The space was cramped with tables, nearly all of them empty except for one in the far corner near the window, which seated four young men and two women in lab coats – residents, most likely. Despite the late hour, they were all in high spirits, nursing their soft drinks and trading jokes, laughing with booming peals as if they didn’t know that the world was ending.

Sherlock felt sick as he turned away from them and approached the counter. From a tired-looking boy in a green apron he ordered three regular coffees and one decaf for Mrs. Hudson. The boy brought them in a cardboard tray and Sherlock threw down too much money and moved off before he had to say anything more.

He stood at the far end of the counter stirring sugar into his cup and listening to the doctors’ voices ring out through the room. He couldn’t retain anything they were saying – the words slipped out of his head as fast as they came in and landed in a pile on the floor – but they were so unaffected, so carefree in their conversation that Sherlock couldn’t make himself leave, even though each time they burst into laughter made him want to double over and empty his stomach onto the cracked tile floor. One of the men had a giddy, high-pitched giggle that stood out in counterpoint his friends’ lower, coarser laughs, and the sound hit Sherlock like a blunt object to the back of his head, making him clutch the side of the counter as his brain spun in his skull.

Flashes of white teeth, shining blue eyes, laugh lines swam in front of his vision and flickered out before he could reach them. The front hallway at Baker Street, the ornate walls of Buckingham Palace, the darkened shadows behind brick buildings, the soft glow of their bedroom – they were everywhere, everywhere, and Sherlock couldn’t hold onto any one of them. And that laugh – that beautiful, joyous, resounding laugh echoed through them all, cruelly out of his reach, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he’d ever truly remember what it sounded like, or if he’d have to settle for the crude approximation by a faceless resident in a white coat, and somehow be thankful for it. 

“You alright, mate?”

Sherlock snapped his head up to look at the boy in the apron; he felt a fresh wave of nausea crash over him at the movement.

“Sorry, just, you’ve been standing there for a while. Coffee’s probably getting cold.” The boy nodded towards the cups, apprehension clearly winning over the concern in his face.

Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling it scratch like sandpaper. “Fine. I just need –” He reached out toward the basket of creams and sugars, then paused. He had no idea how any of the others took their coffee. With a trembling hand he scooped up a handful of sugar packets and nearly spilled all the cups as he balanced the tray in the other, then escaped out the door as quickly as he could manage, not bothering to finish his sentence.

When he made it back to the waiting area, Sherlock was surprised to see that Mycroft’s familiar figure had appeared and was sitting next to Mrs. Hudson. The four of them were leaned in close and talking in hushed tones, but pulled back swiftly as soon as they saw Sherlock, rearranging their features into unconvincing smiles. 

Sherlock fought back the urge to snap at each of them – _oh please, don’t let me interrupt you talking about me, carry on!_ – and mumbled a tense “Mycroft” by way of greeting as he set down the tray in the middle of the table.

Mycroft dispensed with the pleasantries as usual. “You’ll be pleased to know that we have John’s assailant in our custody. He’ll be tried for attempted murder in addition to his several counts of treason.”

“Well, _there’s_ a load off my mind,” Sherlock shot back. He dropped into the chair beside Molly, plucking his coffee from the tray and pointedly not looking at his brother.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a few moments, then Lestrade reached across the circle to hand Sherlock back his phone. “No answer from Harry,” he said evenly. “I tried her three times, but it’s after midnight, she’s probably asleep.”

Sherlock sighed as he twirled the mobile in his hand a few times before pocketing it again. “Just as well,” he muttered. “She’ll only worry.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. Maybe try her again in the morning, once you have something to tell.”

Sherlock blinked, letting his mind sluggishly absorb those words and all their implications. They filtered down through his nerves and lodged themselves in the pit of dread at the centre of his chest.

He was exceedingly glad when Mrs. Hudson broke the silence. “Well, at least one of us should get some rest. For tonight, anyway.” Her voice was a bit strained, but she managed to mostly maintain her sunny disposition. “I know when my sister had her heart episode, I didn’t sleep for a week!”

“Your sister had a heart episode?” Lestrade asked, clearly grateful for a new subject of conversation. He reached for two of the coffees and handed one to Molly.

“Yes, years ago.” Mrs. Hudson tore off the top of a sugar packet. “She does alright now, with her pills and exercises and everything. Still, when it’s your sibling, you can’t help but worry.”

Sherlock could _feel_ Mycroft’s meaningful stare even as he purposefully avoided meeting it.

“I know just what you mean,” Molly chimed in. She sipped at her coffee and grimaced at the lukewarm temperature, but didn’t complain. “You should have seen Charlie when Emma had the flu last year. Absolutely inconsolable.”

“Yeah, it was unbelievable.” Lestrade smiled at the memory. “Normally teases her like there’s no tomorrow, but the _second_ she got sick he became the biggest softie you’d ever seen.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled merrily, and Sherlock sat back in his chair and cradled his cup in both hands. He let the conversation wash over him as it continued on to whatever mundane topic occurred to the three of them – Mycroft did little more than nod occasionally, and Sherlock could only half-listen and half-respond when it seemed like he was being addressed. It wasn’t long before they graciously left him alone – apparently coming to the realization that as much as he needed them right now, he was very much unable to chat – and Sherlock stared into his cup and let the modulations of their voices soothe him as much as they could.

Despite his best efforts, that wasn’t much. The coffee turned cold in his hands – he only managed to take a few sips before it suddenly felt too heavy to lift. On the opposite wall, the clock still _tick, tick, tick_ ed away the seconds, counting down time that Sherlock couldn’t keep track of, counting down to forthcoming hours that didn’t exist, could never exist, as long as he was in this limbo of frenzied calm where nothing could ever be found.

He hadn’t the least idea of how much time had gone by before he sighed and drew himself up out of his chair again. He muttered a quick excuse to the group and went with laboured steps over to the next bank of chairs – close enough keep their voices in earshot, to keep him grounded, but far enough away to have some empty space around him. He needed some distance; he needed some room to breathe as he tried to stop _thinking_ before he drove himself out of his mind. 

Sherlock sank heavily down into the chair in the centre and leaned forward on his elbows, steepling his fingers together in front of his face. He shut his eyes and allowed darkness to swallow the horrible, hollow whiteness of hospital walls, of lab coats, of charts and papers and scribbled notes on clipboards – he breathed deeply once, twice, three times, and let it all melt away.

Inside his mind, he opened his eyes to the front door of 221B. He made himself reach for it slowly, listen to the click of the knob as he turned it, feel the creak of the hinges run through his hand as he pushed it open.

The laughter in the hallway rang out in his ears, but there was no picture to accompany it. Sherlock scowled in frustration and bounded up the stairs; he had no patience for his mind palace to fail him now.

He pushed open the door to the flat, but was again greeted with empty space. No, no, this was all wrong. They were supposed to _be here_ – they were always here, every time Sherlock needed this place, needed something to sustain him, to pull him through the pain, the memories were always here, waiting to welcome him back with the warmth and comfort of home.

But now, now his head spun and his vision contracted – all he could manage were the barest snippets, flickering like an old newsreel onto his unfocused eyes. John sitting in his chair, paper spread before him and hair damp from the shower. John at the sitting room table wearing that striped jumper, folding his hands and asking about their latest case. John draped over him on the sofa, warm and solid and trading jabs with Sherlock while some late night talk show played on the telly. John pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head as he sat at his microscope and whispering softly in his ear not to stay up too long. John pressed against his chest, arms around Sherlock’s back as they swayed together and hummed tunelessly to the crackling radio. John in Sherlock’s dressing gown. John hunched over the stove making dinner. John smiling up at Sherlock as he played the violin. John, John, John.

John in a pool of red with shadows playing over his pale skin. John on an operating table. John underneath a white sheet.

Sherlock let the darkness flood back in and push out the image. Of course. How idiotic to think that he could find respite from his fears inside his own mind.

He made himself concentrate on his breathing; deeply, slowly, not letting panic steal it away from him again. _Breathing is boring_ , he’d once said to John. God, he’d been so wrong. Breathing was the only way he could keep from losing himself now. Breathing was the only thing that mattered when nothing else worked inside his brain. Breathing was all that was keeping John in that room and Sherlock in this hell, and maybe that had already failed.

The chair beside Sherlock creaked slightly and someone settled down into it.

Sherlock kept his eyes shut and waited, but Mycroft didn’t move or speak. Off to the side, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were still rattling on faintly. The clock was still ticking.

Sherlock let it go on, let the minutes slip by as he brought himself fully back to his surroundings. He blinked open his eyes, wincing at the light. Mycroft was scratching lightly at his armrest.

“I’m surprised you managed to tear yourself away long enough to come down here.” Sherlock kept his gaze determinedly forward.

Mycroft was just close enough for Sherlock to detect his sardonic grin out of the corner of his eye.

“Contrary to what you may believe, Sherlock, I am far from indifferent to the welfare of my brother-in-law.” Mycroft’s voice was terse. He picked out a splinter of wood and held it up to the light. “Nor am I prepared to sit in an office conducting an investigation when there is a much more significant crisis happening here.” 

Sherlock blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting Mycroft to say, it wasn’t that.

Mycroft finished his examination of the splinter and flicked it off his finger, sighing deeply.

“I am…sorry for my harshness over the phone earlier.” He’d lowered his eyes into his lap. “I didn’t yet know what had happened.”

Sherlock unclasped his hands and rubbed at his temple, sighing in turn.

“No,” he muttered. “You couldn’t have done.”

Somewhere, a heart monitor faded into earshot, beating out a rapid half-stable pattern. Sherlock waited for Mycroft to speak again.

“I feel partly responsible,” he finally said, the barest note of resignation cutting through his detachment. “I sent you down the path to this.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Mycroft turned his head to look at him straight on. His eyebrows were raised almost imperceptibly. “It wasn’t yours, either, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gasped out a humorless laugh. “But it was,” he said, so low he wasn’t sure Mycroft could hear him. “I let him go first.”

For the first time that night, Sherlock’s thoughts formed coherently around what had happened in that alley. How he’d been about to rush off after the suspect before John had held him back. How he’d let John go ahead of him in an attempt at surprise. He may as well have pushed him into the blade himself.

“Sherlock, you know as well as I do how much is left to chance out in the field.” Mycroft’s voice had taken on an urgent sort of decisiveness. “It could just as easily have been you in there, no matter what you had done.”

 _That would be better than this_ , Sherlock thought.

He shut his eyes briefly to fight back the dangerous prickle welling up behind them. His attempts at keeping his breathing even were faltering with alarming speed, picking up towards full-body shudders.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock’s voice was painfully bitten off. “If he doesn’t come out of this…”

“He will.”

Mycroft’s effort to sound certain felt so inappropriate that this time Sherlock _did_ laugh, breathless and rasping. “Please, don’t patronize me. You’ve got a pack of high-tar cigarettes in your pocket. You’re prepared for the worst.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, fixing his jacket to hide the outline of the package. “A precaution only. I always prepare for the worst. That’s not to say that I expect it.”

Sherlock shook his head; he wasn’t prepared to deal with this. He couldn’t even muster up the standard bemusement that Mycroft was clearly anticipating.

His face fell in a way that only Sherlock would ever be able to detect, and his brows knitted together with the ghost of sympathy. “He _will_ come out of this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock dropped his arms into his lap. His head felt incredibly heavy on his shoulders.

“You really believe that?”

“I do.” Mycroft stared past Sherlock and down the hallway towards the double doors. “John once promised me that he would look after you. He hasn’t yet finished his required term, and I shall be _very_ put out if he decides to back out of the deal now.”

Sherlock let out a guffaw that, to his own surprise, twisted his face into a smile. He allowed himself to enjoy it for the glorious second or two it lasted, before his lips pressed into a firm line and the momentum began building into something else at the back of his throat. He screwed his eyes shut and covered his mouth with his hand to prevent the sobs from escaping, feeling his cold wedding ring press into his skin like a white-hot brand.

He willed, begged, _pleaded_ with himself not to lose it in front of his brother, but it was then that Mycroft did something that very nearly stunned Sherlock into composure; he reached out and laid a hand on his wrist.

Sherlock swallowed back the tightness in his throat and blinked his eyes open, not caring that they were still wet. He dropped his hand from his face and turned to look at Mycroft, eyes searching.

Mycroft’s expression was more exposed than Sherlock had ever seen it. Worry, sympathy, compassion melded together into something so earnest, Sherlock almost didn’t recognize it on him.

If Mycroft saw Sherlock’s bewilderment, he didn’t acknowledge it, just quirked his lips up in the subtlest of smiles.

“Whatever happens, Sherlock,” he said, quietly. “I’ll always be there for you.”

He tilted his head marginally, nodding towards the rest of the group.

“We all will.”

Sherlock’s lip trembled.

In some adjacent room, the monitor had levelled out and was gleefully announcing 84 beats per minute. Somehow, Sherlock thought he felt his own heart calm enough to match it.

His eyes flickered to Mycroft’s hand, and then back up to his face as his voice escaped him in a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft clasped his wrist tighter, and Sherlock’s eyes shone.

* * *

By some miracle, Sherlock managed to endure the eternity it took for something to happen.

It came sometime after Sherlock had collected himself enough to rejoin the rest of his friends. He was listening to them chatter on about some political leader he’d never heard of when a tall woman in a white coat emerged through the double doors.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

Everyone turned to him in unison, barely concealed fear on each of their faces. Sherlock couldn’t look at any of them.

Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale and stood up on unsteady legs. Molly and Mrs. Hudson reached out to lay clumsy hands on his back as he steeled himself, one last futile attempt at comfort.

Sherlock moved toward the doctor as if in a trance. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he crossed them tightly in front of his chest as he stopped in front of her.

“Yes?”

“Are you John Watson’s husband?” she asked. Her voice was impossible to read.

“Yes,” he said again, nodding once.

A horrible, constricting dread surrounded Sherlock’s heart and squeezed it viciously, and for a moment he wished she wouldn’t say anything more. That she’d walk off, and he could go back to that desperate abyss where he would go completely insane, but at least he would never have to deal with what she could be about to tell him.

But the clock ticked mercilessly on, and she opened her mouth to speak.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that his condition is stable, and that the surgery was a success…”

A breathless sob tore its way out of Sherlock’s throat.

The relief that crashed over him was painful in its intensity. It struck him in the centre of his chest and spread out like pins and needles over every nerve. It flooded over the wasted mechanisms of his mind and washed out hours of built-up anxiety and terror and left him light-headed, whirling.

Sherlock pressed his knuckles of his left hand hard against his teeth, holding back the tide of his inevitable breakdown. Distantly, he was aware that the doctor was still talking, saying words he couldn’t hear. He closed his eyes and let the tears leak out, unhindered. 

The details didn’t matter. Anything that happened now was secondary to the fact that John was alright, that John was stable, that John was _alive, alive, John is alive._

Sherlock gasped aloud, the sound muffled by his hand, and the ringing in his ears subsided just enough to allow him back to earth.

“…with proper care and lots of rest, we expect him to make a full recovery.”

 _Full recovery_.

Sherlock was sure he’d never heard sweeter words in his life.

He managed to choke back the remainder of his sobs with a strangled noise from somewhere at the back of his throat.

“Thank God,” he rasped out. He raised his shaking hand to wipe at his eyes. “Oh, thank God.”

“Yes, he gave us a bit of a scare there for a bit,” the doctor grinned, chipper in spite of her obvious weariness. “It was a bit touch-and-go for a while, we weren’t sure…but he came through magnificently. He wasn’t going anywhere, and did he ever let us know.”

Sherlock chuckled – a strained, watery sound through his tears – and he wiped at his face once more before settling his hands onto his hips and clearing his throat.

“Can I see him?” His eyes blinked away wetness as they flickered up to her kindly face.

“Soon.” The doctor’s voice was firm but warm. “We’re just finishing up the stitches, and then we’ll bring him out of the anesthetic. It shouldn’t be more than an hour.” She smiled sincerely and laid a brief hand on his shoulder “We’ll call you in as soon as we can, alright?”

Sherlock exhaled raggedly but no longer painfully. He nodded, and wiped again at the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “Thank you, doctor.”

The doctor nodded back and turned away to head over to the receptionist with a smile.

Sherlock paused for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, his mind still staggering at the massive fog that had just lifted from it. All at once there was so much to process, so much to feel – it was as if all the dust and cobwebs had been swept out of his brain, and the gears were grinding back to life again

When he turned around, all four of them were on their feet, looking fearfully expectant. Molly was wringing her hands together in front of her chest, and even Mycroft betrayed his worry in the twitch of his brow.

“Well?” Lestrade asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed back another wave of tears, and let his entire body relax with a deep sigh.

“He’s pulled through,” he breathed out. “He’s gonna be fine.”

The four of them cried out as one with relief.

Mrs. Hudson hurried forward and folded Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug, and he sank into it eagerly. Lestrade wrapped his arms around Molly, who buried herself in his chest, while Mycroft dropped back down into his chair with a contented exhale.

Sherlock looked around at them all, feeling as though he was seeing them clearly for the first time that night – it was as if he’d been underwater, everything blurred and distorted, and finally he’d been allowed to come up for air.

He patted Mrs. Hudson’s back gently as she sniffled against his shoulder, then stepped back to allow Molly and Lestrade to embrace him in their turn. Each of them hugged him tighter and for longer than he’d ever have normally allowed, but tonight he responded with fervour. He took it all in, sucking deep gulps of air into his starved lungs, and let their shared joy dry his eyes and push away the last of the ache in his chest.

Over Lestrade’s shoulder, Sherlock caught Mycroft grinning softly up at him; he offered a weak smile in return, and Mycroft inclined his head ever so slightly, as if to say, _you’re alright now. Just like I told you. You’re alright._

For once, Sherlock didn’t have it in him to be annoyed.

* * *

Exactly forty-five minutes later, the doctor reappeared.

Sherlock stood and hugged Mrs. Hudson one last time. Molly and Lestrade had gone home to the children soon after they’d gotten the news, promising to be back as soon as they could the next morning, and Mycroft had taken his leave soon after to return to the investigation (quietly passing the receptionist on his way out to make sure everything was in order). Mrs. Hudson, though, had insisted on staying with Sherlock until they let him in to see John, and had chatted cheerfully the whole time while the driver Mycroft had sent for her waited out in the car park.

“Thank you again,” Sherlock said quietly, pulling back. “For coming here.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she slung Sherlock’s coat over her arm. “I’ll see if I can’t do something about this stain.”

Sherlock nodded, hoping his gratitude was evident across his face, and she squeezed his shoulder once more before moving off to let him follow the doctor.

She led him down the hall and around a bend to direct him through a glass door, and when Sherlock stepped through it he halted at the sight in front of him.

John was there, lying on the bed in a flimsy hospital gown. His eyes were closed, and he was as pale as death. Somehow he looked smaller than Sherlock had ever seen him, and so, so fragile, but his chest was rising and falling with tiny, fractional movements – he was _here_ , and he was _breathing_ , and that was all that mattered.

Beside him, a nurse was hanging an IV bag and fiddling with the tabs. John’s eyelids flickered sluggishly, barely opening, and he began to stir on the bed, slowly waking up.

The nurse leaned over and told him to relax, began her routine assurances. John turned his head, struggling to get his eyes open, and grimaced in pain at the bright ceiling lights. “Where’s Sherlock?” he mumbled.

“I’m here.” Sherlock snapped back to himself, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. He moved quickly across the room and pulled the chair to the side of the bed, found John’s hand lying against the bedsheets and picked it up gently.

“I’m here, John. Can you hear me? ” Sherlock held John’s hand as if it would shatter in his grip, running his fingers over chapped skin and settling it between both of his own. He looked up at John’s face, at his tensed brow and fluttering lashes, and willed him to try to respond.

John shifted again and groaned quietly, then with great effort wrinkled his forehead and pulled his eyes open. He looked over at Sherlock, blinked a few times, slowly, then twitched the corner of his mouth up into a pained smile.

“Hey.” His voice was low and harsh with fatigue.

“Hey,” Sherlock replied in a whisper, his breath suddenly caught in his throat.

The nursed finished with the bag and nodded at them as she backed out of the room; she closed the door behind her as she left.

John sighed, casting his gaze down to their joined hands. “I guess we didn’t get him, then."

Sherlock shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry about that.”

A wry smile crept up onto John’s face. “MI6 probably isn’t too pleased with me.”

“It’s alright. It’s all taken care of.” Sherlock gave John’s hand a gentle squeeze, trying to stop this train of thought.

John sighed again, and shifted so he was more upright, wincing as he did so.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock watched his face carefully for signs of distress. “Are you in pain?”

“No, no pain.” John gave a miniscule shake of the head. “Just a bit – foggy.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah, mostly. I remember up until the ambulance – things get kinda dark after that.”

Sherlock relaxed a bit, releasing the tension in his shoulders.

John glanced down at himself. His other hand probed gently at his side, flinching when he felt the wound. “Christ, he really got me, didn’t he?”

“You’re going to be alright.” Sherlock swept his fingers tenderly over John’s. “The doctors say you’ll recover quickly as long as you take it easy for a while. They’ll likely keep you in for a week or so, and then you can come home and we’ll stay off cases until you’re better. You’ll be back on your feet in no time, you’ll see.”

“Hey, hey, I know.” John held Sherlock’s gaze, something other than pain now worrying his brow. He laced his fingers between Sherlock’s and held on tight. “It’s alright, love.”

Sherlock paused, swallowing hard, then exhaled heavily, trying to expel out his anxieties as best he could.

“You really had me worried, for a while.”

John smiled softly, apologetically. “Sorry, love. I wasn’t trying to.”

“No, no, I know.” Sherlock shook his head again. This was all going wrong. John was the one who was hurt, Sherlock should be comforting _him._

“You gave us _all_ quite a fright,” Sherlock amended. John raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly came by, and so did Mycroft. They were worried about you too,” Sherlock explained. “They’ll be back to visit in the morning, but they were all here.”

“Wow.” The look on John’s face was mildly impressed. “That was good of them.”

Sherlock nodded, a sentimental half-smile creeping up onto his lips. “It was.”

John made an attempt to grin in return. He sank a bit more heavily onto the pillows, never taking his eyes off Sherlock.

“They shouldn’t have worried, though,” he went on. “I’m not letting you get rid of me that easy.” 

Sherlock’s smile split wide as he let out a chortle. “You’d better not.”

“I won’t.” John’s eyes shone with mirth. “It’s gonna take a lot more than being shanked by some bastard in a back alley, believe me.”

Laughing, Sherlock leaned down to press a kiss to the back of John’s hand. “Good”.

John giggled above him, that bright, musical sound that rang out through the small room and filled every corner of Sherlock’s heart. No other sound in the world could feel so complete, so perfect; Sherlock was sure of it.

John’s hand was beginning to warm under his touch. Sherlock held his lips to it, suddenly unable to pull away. His eyes had fallen closed.

John’s laughter petered out; he rubbed his thumb tenderly over Sherlock’s fingers where they held him.

Something was pushing up Sherlock’s throat again, threatening to spill out and ruin everything, ruin this moment, ruin the composure he had so diligently kept up. Wetness was welling up behind his eyes, more powerfully than ever before, and Sherlock screwed his eyes more tightly shut, knowing it was just a matter of time before it all burst out.

He pursed his lips in a hard line, trying to force it all back, but it was too late – he was already trembling with it.

“Sherlock?” Sudden alarm sprang up in John’s voice, and he clutched Sherlock’s hand firmly.

Sherlock choked out a single sob against John’s skin.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

The tears slipped out and tumbled onto the sheets; there was nothing he could do to hold them back.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock…” John murmured, hushed. “It’s alright.”

Sherlock let out a ragged gasp, and opened his eyes to look up at John. 

Even through his vision blurred with tears, John looked flayed open.

“Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright,” John nearly whispered, his eyes shining bright. “Oh, come here.”

He tugged lightly at Sherlock’s grip, and Sherlock stood up without hesitation. John shifted over and pulled Sherlock to lay down next to him on the bed, Sherlock guiding him gently so as not to put pressure on the wound. Sherlock settled himself on the pillow, tears flowing freely from his eyes that never left John’s gaze; he kept the fingers of one hand laced with John’s and reached up to cradle his face with the other, anchoring himself with a soft touch, holding onto that contact which was tangible, evidential proof that John was still here.

“I don’t know what I would have done.” Sherlock’s voice was breaking like glass.

“Shhh, it’s alright. We’re alright. ” John pushed a gentle hand back through Sherlock’s hair. “You won’t have to find out.”

Another sob racked through Sherlock’s frame, and John wiped away his tears with his thumb.

“You won’t have to find out, Sherlock. I promise you, you won’t.”

Sherlock swallowed down a particularly powerful wave of desperate cries. John’s lips were starting to tremble.

“I love you,” Sherlock gasped out. “I love you _so much_ , John.”

“I know. Oh God, I know.” John’s voice was becoming equally as strained. He brushed a curl away from Sherlock’s temple. “I love you too.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into John’s palm, savoring every touch, so tender it _hurt_. 

“I don’t say that enough,” he went on, lowly.

John let out a breathless laugh. “You say it almost every day.”

“It’s not _enough_.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open again. He needed to make John understand; he pushed his hand up to brush over his brow, needing to make him _see_.

“You are…” Sherlock’s words stuck in his back of his throat. He swallowed, started again. “You are _everything_ that matters to me. You’re my whole world.”

Sherlock could see John’s eyes beginning to shine.

“And you’re mine.” John breathed out. “You know you’re mine.”

Sherlock dragged their joined hands to rest against his chest, pressing John’s skin up against his pounding heart.

“I love you.” Sherlock said again, barely louder than a whisper of air. “Don’t ever leave me here alone.”

“No.” John shook his head against the pillow. “No, I never will.”

“Promise me.”

“I _promise,_ ” John said earnestly, his voice wrecked. “I promise, I won’t ever, _ever_ , leave you.”

Sherlock let out a long, shaky exhale, his eyes burning – there were no more tears left to fall.

He shifted upwards on the bed to plant a hard kiss in the middle of John’s forehead. He moved down, did the same at the crease of his brow, making John suck in a hard breath. He felt himself shaking as he laid kisses on each of John’s closed eyes, then finally shifted back to seek his already-parted lips.

They kissed deeply, a slow sort of urgency guiding their movements. Sherlock pulled John close by the hand still holding his face, and John pushed his fingers back through Sherlock’s curls and held him firmly at the base of his skull. John’s tongue pushed past Sherlock’s lips, stroking sweetly along his own, the movement so heartbreakingly intimate it made a shiver course through his body.

Sherlock broke off briefly to catch his breath, and then kissed him again, softly, deepening it slowly to let it stretch on as long as possible. John's lips were warm, his movements unhurried, his fingers twined solidly with Sherlock’s like a balm to his aching chest. And the way he nipped gently at Sherlock’s lips, the way he shifted minutely against him to pull him closer, the way the steady rise and fall of his breathing flowed through every point of contact between them, let Sherlock know that John was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he still was and would always be here with Sherlock, no matter what forces in the universe tried to tear them apart.

He let the kiss go on for many long, perfect moments, before John broke it with a quiet sigh, struggling yet again to hold his eyes open.

Sherlock smiled down at him, wavering but no longer trembling. “Do you need to go back to sleep?”

“No, ‘m fine,” John mumbled, shifting against the pillow and letting his eyes fall closed against his will.

Sherlock let out a quiet breath of laughter. “You need to rest, John.” John made a noise of protest, but Sherlock traced his fingers softly down his cheek. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm.” John dropped his hand to press into Sherlock’s back. “Only if you stay.”

“Yes, of course. Of course I’ll stay.” Sherlock smoothed his thumb over John’s closed eye. “I’ll be right here.”

“I know.” John shifted infinitesimally closer to Sherlock, exhaled deeply. “I know.”

With a gentle hand against John’s shoulders, Sherlock drew him in to rest against his chest, leaning down to press a final kiss to the soft lines of his forehead.

John’s breathing evened out into sleep almost immediately, but Sherlock didn’t even close his eyes. All night, he laid there watching John, so peaceful, so fragile, Sherlock couldn’t bear to let him out of his sight. Outside, Sherlock could hear the occasional footsteps of someone passing in the hall, or a gurney squeaking by with a muffled clanking sound, but there was nothing to enter this quiet, delicate space where Sherlock could hear every beat of John’s heart, feel every breath against his neck, see every flutter of movement as he dreamed, and know that as long as he was here in Sherlock’s arms, he was safe.

Sherlock brushed the hair away from John’s temple, stroking along his skin, warm and real and living.

“I’ll always be right here, John,” he whispered. “That’s my promise to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment telling me what you thought. You can also follow me on [tumblr](http://totheverybestoftimes.tumblr.com/) for more Johnlock, though with considerably less angst. :).


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